


Baby, You Can Drive My Car

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Learning to Drive, M/M, Making Out in the Bentley (Good Omens), No Smut It's All In The White Spaces, Sexual Frustration, South Downs Cottage, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29784084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Avert the Apocalypse? Check. Move to the South Downs like respectable retirees? Check. Break a six-thousand-year habit of  careful distancing? Not so fast. But Aziraphale does have one thing he'd like to check off.“Crowley, are you going to let me try this or not? You said you had nothing on today. We don’t live in London any more, the omnibus only runs three times a day and twice on Sundays, it’s completely unfair to expect you to ferry me everywhere. I just need to learn the basics. Once I’ve mastered them I’ll choose an automobile of my own. I wouldn’t presume to take the Bentley out any old time."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 152





	Baby, You Can Drive My Car

**Author's Note:**

> Not a terribly original notion, but one I've been wanting to write for some time.

“Bloody hell, angel, let up on the clutch, you’re going to burn it out – _not that fast,_ you’re stalling again – “ Crowley broke off, coughing.

“Oh, _bother._ Are you quite all right? You haven’t taken a chill, have you? You know I worry about the drafts in that cottage. I’ve called the plasterer.”

“Everything’s -- _hccckk_ \-- _tickety-boo,_ angel. Just a faceful of consecrated dust from that church car park. You had to insist.”

“Well, apparently it’s considered one of the safest places to – experiment.”

Crowley considered experiments. It was too easy, when the angel flushed with mixed excitement and frustration like this. You could imagine all sorts of _experiments_ that might cause that rising colour.

“Clutch to the floor, gear lever back to neutral, start ‘er again.” Crowley silently apologized to his car. Saying No to the angel about anything pretty much violated the laws of physics, but he’d never expected Aziraphale to want to _drive_ the Bentley.

“It’s only sensible,” he’d said over breakfast _– breakfast_ meaning an artful stack of fluffy pancakes festooned with blueberry syrup for the angel, and an industrial-sized mug of Jamaican dark roast for Crowley. Aziraphale had learned how to make it (“I don’t know how you drink it, Crowley, I’d be all nerves,” as if he wasn’t always anyhow) and discovered that Crowley would mooch down in a near-trance from his lair on the top floor if the scent of it spiraled up the stairwell. Crowley could think of a good many better ways the angel could wake him up, but apparently they were bachelors sharing a cottage, and that was that. He wasn’t about to push his luck, a commodity which he considered likely exhausted after the End Of The World That Wasn’t.

“Grrllrrggggk,” had been Crowley’s comment at the time, primarily spoken into his coffee mug, and meaning “You have a panic attack just with me driving.”

Aziraphale had gotten used to his morning elocution. “Well. I certainly wouldn’t drive the way _you_ do,” he said. “For example, I would respect speed limits, use the headlamps in the rain, brake for signals. I _am_ an angel, after all. We obey rules.”

‘Yeah, saw how you did that when push came to shove. Possessin’ that blowzy fraudster. Tellin’ the Archangel Gabriel to piss off. Scammin’ all of ‘em kitted out as _me_.”

“Madame Tracy is a lovely person – the inside of her head was a delightful place – and Heaven was _completely_ disregarding the spirit of God's plan. I wasn’t disobeying _Her_.”

“ _Where is your sword, Aziraphale?“_ It was entirely un-demonic to want to ravish a tartan dressing-gown off an angel. Wasn’t it? Would it count as mischief? Depredation?

“Crowley, are you going to let me try this or not? You said you had nothing on today. We don’t live in London any more, the omnibus only runs three times a day and twice on Sundays, it’s completely unfair to expect you to ferry me everywhere. I just need to learn the basics. Once I’ve mastered them I’ll choose an automobile of my own, I wouldn’t presume to take the Bentley out any old time. Something modest and practical, like a Mini. Or a Morris Minor.”

“I don’t think they’ve made those for donkey’s, angel.”

“Well, one can do research. This Interthingy supplies so much useful information.”

“I’m _perfectly_ glad to drive you. Anywhere you want to go.” Did the angel look briefly wistful at that? Nah. Probably nah. Imagining it. _You take the bedroom upstairs, with the chimney flue in the outside wall. So you’ll be snug as a snake in a snood._ _No, I insist, I’ve barely any use for a bed anyway – a little doze in front of the hearth in my carpet slippers does for me, just for the luxury, and I can keep the fire going so you’ll sleep warm._ Crowley would go up after the last glass was emptied, thinking of ways he could be even snugger, and wondering if Aziraphale actually planned to crochet a snake snood. He had taken up yarn crafts recently, along with baking and mosaic design. Supposedly they were going to name their cottage, and he would make a plaque for the door.

It was all disgustingly precious and domestic, and Crowley cherished it to the point of mortification. So when Aziraphale looked at him with a forkful of pancake half way to his indecently pink, pursed lips, syrup drizzling back to the plate in a slow thread of blue – with the morning sunlight behind it, just the blue of his eyes under raised pale brows, the very _picture_ of disappointed longing – Crowley said “All right, all right. _After_ my second pot've coffee. It’s meant to be a clear day, roads’ll have dried off.”

Aziraphale wiggled with delight, finished the pancakes, went to dress, and appeared in the kitchen again as Crowley gulped the last bitter mouthful. Sporting gloves, goggles and a duster coat.

Of course he did.

* * *

“Don’t turn so sharply, there, you’re going in circles again.”

“Well, I’m accustomed to navigating wheels within wheels. I suppose it’s difficult to break the habit.”

“Straighten out and – brake, _brake!_ That’s a crossing up ahead – “

“Oh, dear. One has to pay attention to so many things at once.”

“You’ll get used to it. It’s just a matter of practice – oh, hell, stalled again. No, you’re still on the brake, back into neutral – don’t look, just do it by feel –that’s it, ease up slow – “ Crowley sucked in a breath, remembering the last time he’d said that to Aziraphale, inside his own head, of course, even if the bedrooms were a floor apart and sound didn’t carry. He hoped.

“Oh, capital, going like a top now.”

“Right now, left foot again, shift into first – _don’t look –_ that’s reverse, aaagh! _Brake!”_ The driver of a lorry that had been coming up behind them swerved, barely missed them, extended a hand with two fingers raised.

“Well, _he_ seems to think I’m doing well. V for Victory, isn’t it?”

Crowley covered his face with one hand. “Neutral again, angel. Press hard and let up gently.” He didn’t even try to disguise the quiver in his voice this time.

* * *

“There we are. Left foot release –- not too fast, not too slow, just the right amount –- right foot stop and go. You can think of it as the first three letters of the alphabet, A for Accelerator, B for Brake, C for Clutch. Only right to left.”

“Like Aramaic. I do believe I’m getting the hang of it. I braked for those geese and then shifted up again, and it kept going.”

“Bloody geese, they’re a sodding menace.”

“It’s the countryside, Crowley. Anyway, you used to say the same thing about London pedestrians.”

“Pedestrians don’t break into the garden and take a shite right in your campanulas.”

“She did apologize. And brought us some eggs. I rather like the honking anyhow. so melodious and wistful. Speaking of which, when ought one to sound the horn?”

“Sparingly. If you see that someone’s not braking for you at a crossing, say – ack!” Aziraphale had found the horn. Crowley levitated briefly. “ _Warn_ me.”

“No one’s about.”

“Least busy road I could think of. All right, let’s try a bit more speed. I can always use a miracle if something goes wrong – there we are, hear the engine revving up? Just give the tachometer a glance _– “_

“That’s this thingy? _”_

“A _glance –_ steer _left_ , angel, drivin’ like a bloody Yank – gets up toward three thousand, left foot, second gear, straight back – _ooof!”_

“Oh, fiddlesticks, I let up too fast.”

“It’s okay, angel. Try again.”

“Press, start, release – got it – first gear, oh, this is _spiffing_ , it just _rolls_ along, press, down – oh, Crowley! No wonder you love this! Can I try third?”

“Let’s practice downshifting a little more first,” said Crowley, trying not to stare at the angel’s expression of wide-eyed, open-mouthed delight -- he'd reluctantly let himself be persuaded to discard the goggles --and downshifting himself as best he could. When Aziraphale had said _what about retiring to the countryside, we’ve earned it, you’ve always been such excellent company, and just think of the garden,_ he hadn’t imagined that daily proximity to the angel would become a slow martyrdom (assuming demons could be martyrs). Perhaps the mosaic plaque should read _Serpent’s Torment._ He was sure Heaven would approve.

* * *

“Okay, remember where the hand brake is? Put your hand on it without looking – don’t pull right now, just touch it – right, in case you start to drift back. We’re going up this hill and stopping at the top.”

“Why ever? There’s no crossing.”

“You need to practice. Quick and smooth – “ _goddammit, stop thinking of that_ “ – from the gas pedal to the brake. Clutch at the same time. You wanted that cottage on the steepest hill in the village, you’ll need to get this right.”

“Well, the view’s superb. You said so yourself. Like looking down from Heaven, without the unpleasant company. All right, here we are, one-two – oh, dear –” The angel’s hand flashed out, got Crowley high on the thigh, and floundered about as the demon yanked the emergency brake.

“Try again, just don't panic when you feel it go backward a little,” said Crowley, panicking. “Just – that’s it. Slide into it.” The window definitely needed to come down a bit, the day was heating up. “You’ve got it, there we are, just push a little harder" -- dammit -- "and you’ll be over the top – _aaaah!_ _brake! Left lane, angel – “_

“Oh, dear, was that a checker car?”

A long wail reached their ears, and an unintelligible phrase from a loud-hailer.

Crowley sighed. “Pull over.”

* * *

“I’m so dreadfully sorry to put you out, Constable.”

“Had anything to drink, sir?”

“Well, two bottles of Montrachet, but that was last night – “

“Blow into this. Right, can you walk ten steps heel to toe?”

“I can dance the gavotte.”

“Bugger ‘f’I know what that is. What d’ye mean by drivin’ like that then, little hanky-panky on the road? Time ‘n’ place, squire.”

“Oh no, only I’m quite new at this – “

“My friend’s learning to drive, it’s his first go,” Crowley put in.

“Well then. Better late than never, eh? Beautiful car, yours then?”

Crowley preened a little and stopped just short of saying he’d had her since new. It didn’t seem like a good day to get sectioned.

“Ought t’take her to the vintage show in Stockton. Every March. Right, well, that was proceeding in the wrong lane, exceeding the limit, driving erratically, just lucky I was t’only one around – warning this time, what aboot practicin’ in a church lot?”

“I’m afraid it gave my friend here a cough – “

“Ah, allergies. They _will_ plant all the wrong trees, Missus suffers turrible. Well, you can come by the station, we’ve those bumper stickers that say New Driver, free for t’askin’. Tell’m Constable Knightley sent you. They’ll all want a look at her, beauty.” The constable tucked away his ticket pad. “Train ‘im right, now.”

Crowley gulped and took two or three slow breaths. “ _Gavotte,_ angel?”

“I suppose it was a bit sarky – “

“Ah, get in. Got my orders, don’t I?”

* * *

“There we are, now over this rise – downshift to slow ‘er on the other side, oh, _well_ done, angel, stop sign at that crossing ahead, just coast her until you brake – no one coming, right, back into gear – perfect – “

The windows were all the way down now, the breeze lifting Crowley’s hair and snatching his words as Aziraphale cruised up into second and then third. The green and yellow and sheepy-white patchwork of Sussex peeled away on either side, light glancing off the hood ornament from breaks in the scudding clouds; Crowley’s angel was driving him, and wherever they were going was where he wanted to go. They slipped through a roundabout, a bit quicker than was probably advisable but smoothly, deftly, and the angel turned to him with eyes crinkled and shining as he rolled to a stop at the next crossing.

“Oh, Crowley, this is _splendid –_ I do think I’ve got it – I can’t thank you – “ And with his foot still firmly on the brake, he twisted in the driving seat, snatched Crowley’s lapels and pulled him in for a resounding kiss.

Crowley felt his clutch disengage and his gears spin.

“ _Angel?”_

“Oh dear, oh dear – I’m sorry, that was terribly forward of me– “

Crowley caught his shoulders just as he was about to turn back to the wheel.

“Not _terribly_ , angel.”

Aziraphale gazed bluely at him.

“I’d say just the right amount,” Crowley went on, and when the angel didn't pull away, bent his head.

He’d dreamed of it all those years ago, sitting under the garish lights of Soho with the Holy Water freshly tucked into the glove box, only he’d been the one in the driving seat and Aziraphale had slipped away and the world had been a darkly bitter place every time he touched the wheel for years after that. Now the angel’s mouth was soft under his and the hand that wasn’t on the wheel was in his hair and Aziraphale still tasted faintly of blueberries and butter, and his chest felt like it might burst in a stupid tatty display of little pink hearts and gold stars, and that would be just fine, he suddenly endorsed little pink hearts, and the car was rolling –

Someone leaned hard on a horn. At first he thought it was the Bentley’s, but then another car swerved in front of them, just missing the front bumper which was now half-way through the crossing; braked, and emitted an indistinct sentence that seemed to be fifty per cent swears. Aziraphale extended a hand, two fingers thrusting up.

“V for Victory, wouldn’t you say?” he remarked mildly as the other driver peeled off in a spray of gravel.

“You little smartarse, you knew perfectly well what it meant – you’ve stalled again.”

Aziraphale flashed him a look of supreme innocence. “I can’t imagine what you’re getting at.”

“I think you can.” Crowley slid a hand to the angel's knee, feeling his heart knock the back of his breastbone; squeezed and relaxed his grip in time with his instructions: “Press – accelerator pedal – release. There you go. Up this way another quarter mile or so – there we are, left turn here – “

“It says No Through Road, isn’t this the back way into Ransom’s orchard?”

“Got it in one, angel. Pull over here.”

“What are we – mph!”

“Moving things forward. Not so slowly.”

* * *

“I don’t remember the rear seat being this wide.”

“It wasn’t.”

"You know, I -- well, when I suggested moving to the country together -- I did think possibly -- but, you know, when it comes to it, one feels shy. I suppose -- all that time. Putting on the brakes, so to speak."

"Make up for it now. How many buttons does this thing _have_?"

“Ah --does anyone ever come through here?”

“Not this time of year. Anyway, windows’re fogged up.”

“Whatever made you – oh, that feels lovely, just stop a moment – think of this?”

“Ah, come back here for a ramble a few times. Nice t’be somewhere quiet, with apple trees. Brings it back, first time I saw you.”

“You weren’t at all the way they’d told us. Demons, I mean.”

“You weren’t at all the way I’d remembered.”

“You mean we – “

“Not that I recall. Only that you weren’t a pompous arse. You were just ridiculous.”

“Oh, _really_ – “

“And adorable. Chubby little cheeks. All fussy and flustered – made me want to do _this_ – “

“Don’t _tickle –_ – “

“Make you all wiggly – ”

“If you’re going to be demonic, I shall have to smite you – “

“Mmm. I’m all yours, angel. Smite away.”

* * *

“Well, _that_ was exhilarating. We must try again tomorrow.”

“Why wait that long?”

“I meant the driving.”

“Oh, right. Nice job stopping at the top of the grade, by the way. Guess it’s all right to live on a hill after all.”

“I was thinking about that. I’ve been wondering what to put on the plaque, you know, for the door.”

“Anything you like, angel, ‘cept for silly stuff like Dunroamin or Stumble Inn.”

“Well, we are on a bit of an eminence here, what they call fells in the Pennines, so I was thinking possibly _Crowley’s Fell – “_

Crowley groaned.

“You don’t like it? It quite states the case, you know. Really, I’ve been yours for longer than I realized. And it’s a bit archaic, but then, so are we -- ”

“Yup. Just old people snoggin’.”

“Really – mph – don’t you think we’d be more comfortable inside? Ah -- upstairs, perhaps?”

“Lead the way, angel. Been standing on the brakes long enough.”

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my fics, share, reblog, comment! Come stall out with me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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